


Call Me Maybe

by DoreyG



Series: Professional Secrecy [1]
Category: Superman: The Animated Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, And They Call it Puppy Love, Androids V Robots, Awkward Conversations, Canon-Typical Violence, Confusing Emotions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Dating, Episode Tag: A Little Piece of Home, Episode Tag: Feeding Time, Episode Tag: Fun and Games, Episode Tag: Stolen Memories, Episode Tag: The Son of Krypton Part III, Episode Tag: The Way of All Flesh, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Geek Love, Genderswap, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Inappropriate bathtime conversations, Innuendo, Kissing, Kryptonite, Making Out, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play, Reporters, Secret Identity, Superheroes, Superwoman is the disapproving mother of the DC universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:25:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t stand out, not really, but he’s drawn to her nonetheless. She’s unusually tall for a woman, 5’11 even in flats. Her black hair is pulled back into a ragged braid, one that looks at risk of falling out at any moment. Her blue eyes are largely hidden behind thick glasses, round and riding high on her prominent nose. Her body-</p><p>“Can I help you, Mr Luthor?”</p><p>…Ah, that may have been overstepping his boundaries <i>just</i> a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’re waiting by the elevator when he catches up with them, close together in inaudible conversation. He’d leave them be at any other time, hover in the background and see if he could gain any titbits towards his own ends, but today he’s impatient – itchy in a way that rarely happens. He clears his throat instead, watches as their heads snap up as if they’ve been doing something guilty.

_Interesting_.

But, again, interesting in a way that he’d be a lot more interested in on another day. He smiles, pleasantly, spreads his arms and steps forward like the most charming man in Metropolis, “something has just occurred to me, Ms Lane.”

Lois Lane, lady reporter of extraordinary persistence, very slowly narrows her eyes at him. Clara Kent, temptingly unknown quantity, hovers thoughtfully behind, “what, Lex? We do have a deadline, you know, we can’t be subject to your whims on a twenty four-seven basis.”

“This isn’t a whim, Ms Lane, I assure you,” he purrs, voice as smooth as syrup and hands still so charmingly spread – he doubts that it’ll be enough to affect a mind like Lois’, but there’s a first time for every miracle, “Laing, the main scientist who worked on the Lexo-Skel Suit, is visiting our labs today. I was wondering if you’d like a word with him?”

And if charm doesn’t work, bait dangled in front of her professional curiosity _always_ will. Her eyes flash, her fingers tighten on the straps of her bag, she opens her mouth and bounces on the balls of her feet like a kid in a candy store…

And turns to Clara half-apologetically, just as predicted, “I’m sorry, this sounds like a valuable lead. Meet me back at the Planet?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clara only smiles, ever so prettily, in reply. Tugs on the end of her dark braid with absent-minded geniality, “I’m sure I can find my way.”

“Well, you’re not _dumb_. Lex-?”

He smiles a little, at Lois’ own unique breed of charm. Nods to Mercy standing behind him, looking as utterly bored and put-upon as she always does, “Ms Graves will escort you. Just tell her what you want to see, and when you want to leave, and she’ll arrange everything.”

“ _Excellent_. Dr Laing was his name? How _interesting_. I want to know about the mechanics of the suit, any of the less obvious applications. I want to know who was interested in it, why they were interested in it, what those interested parties thought it could be used for-“ And Lois nods, and Lois bounces, and Lois follows Mercy at a professional trot just as expected yet again…

And leaves him alone with Clara, lingering so prettily besides him.

She doesn’t stand out, not really, but he’s drawn to her nonetheless. She’s unusually tall for a woman, 5’11 even in flats. Her black hair is pulled back into a ragged braid, one that looks at risk of falling out at any moment. Her blue eyes are largely hidden behind thick glasses, round and riding high on her prominent nose. Her body-

“Can I help you, Mr Luthor?”

…Ah, that may have been overstepping his boundaries _just_ a little.

“Miss Kent, isn’t it?” He smiles smoothly, and is somewhat gratified when she only gives him an amused nod as opposed to a terribly offended glare, “I thought that was what Ms Lane said. I don’t think that we’ve met before.”

“That’s because I just moved here.”

“And just started working for the Daily Planet too, I presume?”

“You presume right,” her lips curve, she turns half away from him and fixes her eyes on the elevator. It makes him feel… Oddly insignificant, for all that this is his office and she’s but a green reporter new to his domain, “this is my first week on the job.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” he’s not quite sure if he likes that, or not – the challenge, the threat, the thrill of interest. Oddly enough, he’s entirely willing to wait and find out, “why did you wish to work for the Daily Planet, if I may be so bold?”

The curve of her lips widens slightly, she only looks all the more amused, “I wanted to move to Metropolis.”

Even more interesting, “and why did you want to move to Metropolis?”

Her smile widens all the further, she looks so amused that he half expects her to burst out laughing then and there, “because I wanted to work for the Daily Planet.”

And he finds, to his utter surprise, that _he’s_ laughing too. Stops the moment that he realizes, clears his throat and fixes his gaze professionally on some point in the distance. He hasn’t laughed involuntarily in _years_ , not since he gained control over Metropolis. The fact that he feels the need to break that habit now is… Interesting, again.

Clara watches him out of the corner of her eye, smile dimming just slightly. She doesn’t look worried, or even confused – the only expression on her face is slight curiosity, a knowing wariness that is both new and refreshing, “do you find something funny, Mr Luthor?”

“Not exactly,” he puts on his own smile, makes sure to keep control this time – there’s no need to show all the cards in his hand, not quite yet, “it’s just… Well, few people talk to me that way these days.”

Her smile dims all the further, she continues watching him out of the corner of her eye without worry or confusion – just that lingering curiosity, that fresh wariness that shows she isn’t impressed by him one little bit, “is that supposed to be some sort of threat, Mr Luthor?”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you,” it’s still refreshing, still _intoxicating_. All the minds in this city, and she’s the first one since Lois to see even the slightest bit through him. He keeps control, yes, but he’s rattled – most certainly rattled, in the best possible way, “are you actually going to tell me your reasons for being here?”

“You know my reasons for being here.”

“You know what I mean, Miss Kent.”

“Perhaps,” She turns her head to him again, makes sure that her smile brightens again – he’s pretty sure that he’s never met a woman like Clara Kent before, he’s pretty sure that he should keep an eye on that as best he can, “and so maybe I should make what _I_ mean clear: I’m not in the habit of sharing my entire past with strangers.”

Starting now, if at all possible, “then how about we become more than strangers?”

She snorts, involuntarily. Swings her gaze back to the elevator before he can see more than reluctantly admiring amusement flash across her expression, “I’m not sure that I grasp your meaning.”

“I’m not sure that I believe your ignorance,” he drawls, and interprets the sideways curve of her smirk as a victory, “a date. Dinner, light conversation, maybe a bit of dancing if we want to fully adhere to tradition. I _would_ honestly like to get to know you better, Miss Kent; strangerhood is a step too far away for me.”

“ _Hm_.”

Her elevator arrives, at _just_ the wrong moment. She steps in, before he can manage more than a muted glare in its direction, and presses a button. Stares at him ever so thoughtfully as the doors start to close on her mysterious form.

She’s still smiling, even as she disappears, “we shall see, Mr Luthor.”

 

\--

 

Superwoman enters into his life like a ray of light, a blaze of interest, a buzzing gnat that needs to be _crushed_. She hovers outside his window, dark hair drifting in the breeze and eyes fixed, and he already wants to _destroy_ her – to rip her down and remind Metropolis of who their true god is.

He ignores the urge, just for now, tilts his head invitingly instead, “I’m afraid that we already have a window cleaner.”

She only continues staring – mouth tight, arms crossed over her chest. A well-endowed chest, he will admit, but an irrelevant one for now. It hardly distracts him from his rage, from the _irritation_ Superwoman has so quickly become.

“The silent treatment, eh?” He steeples his fingers before him, leans back in his chair like the king of the world. He’s in power here, and neither of them should forget that - _he’s_ the one that owns Metropolis, and she’s simply some upstart that has dared to stray onto his turf, “I don’t know what you thought you heard out there, but I know what you can _prove_ and it’s nothing.”

Superwoman only remains hovering. Staring, _staring_.

“You see, uh… _Super_ woman. I own Metropolis,” but he’s still in power here, and so he can push the irritation _down_ \- down. Right to the point where all his other emotions lurk, kept in storage until he deems them necessary again, “my technology built it, my will keeps it going, and nearly two-thirds of its people work for me whether they know it or not. Even you have to admit, it’s a model of efficiency.”

Even she has to admit… Nothing. She does not deserve a reaction from him, it’s remarkably hard to remember that under her disapproving eyes.

“And yet, I’ve always thought… Why limit myself to just one city?” They remind him of something, _Somebody_. But she still does not deserve a reaction - she still does not deserve _anything_ as he repeats to himself faster and faster, harder and harder under the laser beam of her gaze, “a being with your abilities could be very useful to me on a, shall we say, _global_ scale.”

The laser beam of her gaze…

Nothing.

“Why don’t you float on in,” he says calmly, through teeth gritted so hard that he can taste copper flaring up in his mouth like defeat, “and we’ll discuss it properly?”

Her gaze…

_Nothing_ -

She deserves nothing, but that _changes_ nothing. His temper, for the first time in years, _snaps_ \- turns angry, burning in a way that makes the world around him go so terribly red, “ _say_ something!”

His nails dig into his palm, his teeth _grind_ together. The rage boils up, and he finds the model of the suit in and out of his hand before he even realizes it. Soaring towards Superwoman’s perfect face like he can even hope to leave a scar, even _dream_ of reminding her of her place in _his_ world.

He can’t, of course.

She catches it, casually between her hands. Glances at it passively, disinterestedly, for a moment before tightening her grip and crushing it to meaningless dust before his very eyes, “I’ll be watching you, Luthor.”

And she flies away.

Like _he_ means _nothing_.

 

\--

 

Later that night, when he’s finally easing himself into a hot bath, his phone rings. A jangling, discordant tone that sends a groan rumbling up in his throat even as he reaches for it.

“Mr Luthor?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Miss Kent. Clara Kent? I interviewed you earlier with Ms Lane?”

The groan halts in his throat, he feels a smile replacing it as he sinks a little lower into the water. Clara Kent, ever so pretty and sharp Clara Kent. This day might just be starting to look up, “I remember you, Miss Kent, no need to worry. Though I must confess to some confusion.”

“Oh?”

“How _did_ you get my number?”

“I am a reporter, Mr Luthor, I feel that it is best to maintain _some_ level of professional secrecy,” he imagines her smiling, amused down the phone. It sends a warm feeling spreading through his limbs, a happy buzz that leaves him chuckling and tilting his head right back, “I’m calling you about a certain proposition that you made earlier.”

“I wasn’t aware that I made one, Miss Kent.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were as bad at feigning ignorance as me, Mr Luthor.”

He chuckles, “touché.”

“I thought so,” she laughs in return, a soft sound that only makes the warmth unfurl further – sink into his bones until he’s languid and cheerful, “I wanted you to know that I accept. Are you free at around eight tomorrow?”

“I thought it was my job to ask that question, Miss Kent.”

“Oh, let’s not fall back into tired gender roles _now_. I moved away to _escape_ that kind of thing.”

“Really?”

“Well, partially,” he can feel her smirk down the phone, just as well as he could feel her smile. He closes his eyes at it, revels in the imagining as the water washes over him, “I ask again: are you free at around eight tomorrow?”

And he doesn’t even have to glance at his diary to reply, so many things can be so _very_ easily cancelled, “I shall see you then, Miss Kent.”

 

\--

 

They agree on a mid-priced restaurant in the end, a small place downtown. It isn’t quite suited to nosy reporters starving after a long night snooping, but also isn’t quite a place where the mindless upper class can carouse. It’s nice, quiet, private – a meeting in between that perfectly suits the both of them.

Odd, how he already wants to please her.

Clara arrives a few minutes late, crashing into the restaurant at a jog which has the other patrons giving confused stares. Her hair is hurriedly drawn up into a bun, she’s wearing no make-up and she’s dressed in a pair of trousers that look suspiciously like the ones she was wearing to interview him just a few days back. She smiles at him apologetically, as she sits down, and he forgets most of that – the curve of her lips is already enough to drive negativity away, to restore it with a kind of buzz that he can’t quite place, “sorry that I’m late, I had a… Thing.”

Already this is dangerous, “a thing?”

“Professional discretion, Mr Luthor,” already he finds himself curiously uncaring. Fixated instead on the curve of her smile, her long fingers as she plucks a menu from its stand, “I’m sure that you understand.”

“Of course. Especially in a personal situation such as this, where the professional should play little to no part,” he coughs, hides his face behind his own menu before she can read anything from it – he may be a fool, but he’s not completely foolish yet, “although, if that is the case I must admit to finding something rather hard to understand.”

“Oh?”

“Why you don’t use my first name,” he uses the menu to gain composure – is in power again when he comes up, charming and genial like the god of Metropolis that he is, “if this meeting is as personal as you imply it to be, Miss Kent, it’s odd to conduct it along the lines of a formal interview. I hope you agree?”

“Oh, of course…” It’s a premise that he can work with – until she flushes a little, of course, and he has to retreat back behind his menu to save some level of face, “Lex. And I suppose you must call me Clara in return, by your own logic.”

“Yes,” he says from behind his menu – cursing himself gently, surprised at how far she’s already managed to worm underneath his skin, “Clara and Lex it is, then.”

 

\--

 

Clara Kent is as smart as she is pretty, and charming too. Her dark hair gleams in the light, her opinions on the overabundance of productions of Shakespeare are divine and when she smiles at him he finds that he can concentrate on very little else.

It’s… Troubling, to say the least.

“I grew up in Kansas,” she offers over her main course, devouring her lamb in little bites in a way that _really_ shouldn’t captivate him, “Smallville, to be exact. Have you heard of it?”

“I can’t say that I have, I’m afraid,” he replies honestly, just manages to remember to dig into his own steak instead of settling for staring rapt into her face like some kind of pathetic puppy, “is it a nice place?”

“Oh, very,” she smiles at his interest, doesn’t seem to – or pretends not to – notice his idiocy. That’s good, he’s not sure that he could face another loss of face this soon after the Superwoman incident, “the people there are so friendly, and cook the best Ribs in the state. The weather is usually excellent, the scenery is beautiful and there’s practically no crime at all.”

“Sounds ideal,” he laughs gently, barely resists the urge to just rest his chin in his palm and stare limpet-eyed in her direction, “but…?”

“But,” she giggles at him, demurely, and goes back to her own meal – slight flush rising on her cheeks again, shoulders slightly bowed as if she’s embarrassed to raise even the slightest complaint against the place that produced her, “you can probably tell its main problem from its name. It’s lovely, a wonderful place to visit, it’s just… A little small.”

“Ah,” he gets it instantly, sits back in his chair and tries not to let his marvelling at just how _nice_ she is show on his face, “and boring?”

“No! No,” she bites her lip again, gives a resigned shrug of her shoulders. He very firmly fights the urge to give a longing sigh in response, “maybe a little. It was a great place to grow up, make no mistake, but… It was never really the sort of place where I saw myself spending the rest of my life, y’know?”

“I think I do,” he nods, and forces another bite of his steak – allows it to slide down his throat, almost ground him in this brand new world that he’s stumbled into, “some people are just meant for more.”

_Almost_. She laughs at him, a surprised sound. Places her fork neatly on her plate as she sits back in her chair, pins him with her thoughtful eyes like some bug on a slide, “I wouldn’t quite say that.”

“Then what would you say?” He asks. Imprisoned, but in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

“I’m not sure,” she only continues to lean back in her chair, smile, stare at him like he’s something interesting and unknowable and just beyond her frame of reference, “give me some time, maybe I’ll have decided by our second date.”

 

\--

 

“I have a second date,” he tells Mercy that night, when she’s driving him home after dropping Clara off at the subway, “ _I_ have a second date with _her_.”

“That’s very nice, sir,” Mercy nods, completely disinterested. Continues driving through the night even as he smiles, and beams, and resists the urge to hug himself like it’s the night before Christmas.

 

\--

 

Superwoman defeats the Toyman and saves the damsel in distress, does it all while looking immaculate and perfect and without a care in the world. Her face is on every screen, that stupid ‘S’ symbol on the front of every paper. Everywhere he looks he sees ‘Superwoman’ heralded – the heroine of the city, the unknowable force that’ll bring evil helplessly to its knees.

It’s _sickening_.

He sits in his office, fingers steepled under his chin, and watches the news come in with a scowl slowly spreading across his face. They’re idealizing her, this city of hopeless fools who have memories worse than goldfish. They’re raising her up to a goddess, when she’s no such thing. They’re worshipping her with breathless awe, hopeless love like they give their own children – they watch her, and she becomes a legend before their very eyes.

He wants to destroy her. To grind her into dust, burn her to ashes and scatter them over her adoring devotees until they realize the truth of their hollow idol. He wants to tear the veil from their eyes, rip the breathless gasps of worship from their lips, shatter their golden calf where she stands. He wants to expose her, break her precious morals over his knee, remind both her and the world that she’s just as base and craven as the rest of them. He _wants_ -

“Mr Luthor? Miss Kent on line two for you.”

-Other things than her, thankfully.

 

\--

 

“I was born here,” he smiles, charming over a glass of champagne. They’ve chosen a bar this time, a little place just downtown. The music is a loud, and the other customers can be described as objectionable at best, but Clara is across from him and everything is already worth it, “in this city, I mean. Though it was just a town then.”

“Interesting,” Clara offers, perhaps a touch quietly, and takes a slow sip of her own drink, “up until I was about, oh, fifteen or so I’d only heard of Metropolis as a place just a bit bigger than Smallville, I must admit. I’m guessing you had something to do with the change?”

“Yes,” and he doesn’t like to boast, much, but if she does ask… “The ground around Metropolis is rich in mineral deposits, but nobody had ever thought to harness them. When I founded Lexcorp I made exploiting those resources a priority-“

“And grew quickly rich off the profits,” Clara laughs a little, takes another sip and presses a slow hand to her forehead, “Canny. Cannier that you didn’t rest on your laurels.”

“No,” he frowns a little at the gesture, absently reaches out to press his hand against her trousered knee, “no. Minerals were a profitable industry, still are for us, but I’ve never regarded myself as a one trick pony. Car parts, white goods, electronics of various kinds – you name it, Lexcorp almost certainly has a hand in it.”

She smiles at the press of his fingers, glances up through her eyelashes at his words. His hand tightens involuntarily, the breath catches in his throat as she looks at him, “even history?”

“Ah,” he chuckles a little, hopes that his attempts to catch himself aren’t _too_ evident – it would simply be embarrassing, at this stage; even with a companion as lovely as Clara to witness it, “you’ve heard about the museum.”

“It opens next week, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, we’re setting up for it as we speak,” he offers his own smile, deliberately polite and distracting – her eyes on his face make him want to reveal far more than is wise, “my priority is still business, of course, but I’ve always had a fondness for the past. I want to see it preserved, and if I can personally help with that…”

“How noble,” she only smirks at him in return – slightly strained, her hand still pressed firmly to her forehead and her eyes vague in a way that leaves him worried, “and the tax benefits don’t hurt either, I’m assuming?”

He stares at her for a long few seconds, too concerned to even marvel at the way she’s seen right through him. That’s new, that’s a reaction that a grand total of zero of his former partners have pulled out of him before, “you’ve been talking to Ms Lane about me again, haven’t you?”

“Oddly enough, Lex, I _am_ capable of forming my own opinions without intervention,” she only huffs at him, continues to clutch her head… Winces, so briefly that he only catches it due to his close attention to the details of her face, “it’s a nice thing to do, yes, and probably admirable. But you can’t deny your own-“

“I never deny my own self-interest, Clara,” he replies honestly, and removes his hand from her knee – places it on her elbow instead, hopefully grounding, “are you alright?”

“Sure,” she hesitates for a second, allows her eyes to flicker down to his hand – such blue eyes, they remind him of somebody else who has the unfortunate habit of staring him down… “It’s just a tiny bit noisy in here, that’s all. I get- headaches, sometimes. It’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Want to leave?” He asks immediately, worriedly, without really thinking about anything else.

And Clara’s lips curve, Clara’s eyes sparkle, Clara looks at him like he’s something so terribly interesting and different and hard to work out, “speaking of your own self-interest…”

 

\--

 

The night is cool and mostly quiet, peaceful in a way that he approves of. This time Clara allows him to escort her, with a short laugh, and so they amble down the streets side by side. The city slumbers, prosperous and calm around them. At some point he takes her hand cautiously, at some point she lets him with a little smile.

Intoxicating, still.

Not enough to _entirely_ dull his senses, though, “did you mean the self-interest comment as an insult?”

“Which one?” Clara purrs casually, and then sighs at the look on his face – awkwardly shrugs her shoulders, “I’m not entirely sure, sorry about that.”

“I’d say don’t be, but…” He sighs in turn, ever so gently squeezes her hand. She squeezes back, just for a second but the pressure can’t be denied, “just like you’re still not entirely sure about some people deserving more?”

“You remember that?” She looks surprised at his words, even more surprised when he backs them up with a nod – like she expected nobody to remember her, like she expected to fade easily into the background for the rest of her life, “exactly, I suppose. They’re… Confusing. I’m usually faster than this, but I don’t know what to make of-“

She trails off. He waits her out, watching her out of the corner of his eye with an odd breed of nerves shifting in his stomach.

“I-“ she frowns. Sets her shoulders, raises her chin – he’s pretty sure that he’s never paid this much attention to anybody before, “I… Just don’t know what to make of _you_ sometimes, Lex. You’re different from anybody I’ve ever met.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” she bites her lip, shakes her dark head and carries on – brave in a way that astounds him, in a way that he can’t quite understand, “and I know that I’m a farm girl from Kansas and thus have a somewhat limited frame of reference, fine… But you’re different from anybody I’ve ever _heard_ of too, and that’s something that’s not supposed to happen.”

He can’t help but stare at her, openly. He’s pretty sure that his mouth doesn’t hang open, his face doesn’t change, but his eyes are fixed to her nonetheless.

“You’re known as a great philanthropist, but often don’t seem to care about people at all,” she says deliberately, meeting his gaze so firmly that his awe has no option but to increase, “you can be so rude and so dismissive, and then turn around and be _so_ charming that most people don’t even seem to mind. You plan to open museums, and then create war machines on the side. You do such terrible things, but then…”

He continues to stare at her openly, silently, confusedly.

“…Well, you show me such a good time. Like I actually _mean_ something to you,” she only bites her lip again, sighs again, shakes her head at him like he’s the Sphinx and she’s Oedipus standing before him with her sword bared, “You’re a riddle wrapped in an enigma, Mr Luthor. And I’m still trying to figure you out.”

He hesitates for another second. Open, silent, confused…

Frowns, and slowly tilts his head down to her as his brain reluctantly starts working again, “what terrible things have I done?”

She only laughs, and smiles, and tilts up on her toes to press an ever so soft kiss right on the skin of his cheek – just a few inches from the curve of his mouth, “professional secrecy, Lex, professional secrecy. Hey, do you want to get ice cream?”

 

\--

 

“She kissed me,” he informs Mercy dazedly, when he gets back to the office for an understandable bit of late-night figure skimming, “she actually _kissed_ me.”

Mercy only looks at him flatly, like he’s an idiot, and goes to fetch the papers before he can say anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything goes smoothly, and the museum opens exactly as planned. A sizable crowd gathers to witness it, him, and he glories under their gaze. Lex Luthor – preserver of history, saviour of the past, true god of Metropolis. Bow down to him mere mortals, and despair.

He catches Clara’s eye in the crowd, and winks at her. She only rolls her eyes up at him, a worshipper as yet unmoved, smiles a secret smile that he can barely glimpse through the heads. Lois stands beside her, looking suspicious and disapproving in equal measure, but he finds that he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t _care_.

Because this is going well.

And Clara Kent kissed him. Right on his cheek, just a few inches away from his mouth, just a few days ago.

And the world is bowing down at his feet, laid out for his perusal, respecting him as the true god he is and giving nary a thought to the blue and red pest that keeps crashing into their lives uninvited.

And Clara Kent _kissed_ him.

And-

…It doesn’t matter, is the point of the matter. He steps up to the podium, summons up his most professional smile and lets the awed cheer of the crowd wrap around him like the very fondest of blankets. He is perfect, he is divine, he is wonderful and untouchable with as good as a crown on his head. Whatever could go wrong?

 

\--

 

The answer is, as ever, both nothing and _everything at once_.

“Superwoman,” he mutters, and rewinds the tape yet again – watches his nemesis stumble, fall, _weaken_ in the most pleasing way that he’s ever seen, “ _Superwoman_. Tell me, Mercy, is there a more annoying pest than Superwoman on this earth?”

“I can think of a few,” Mercy offers dispassionately, watching his obsession calmly from under her utilitarian cap, “sir.”

“…Really?”

“That is a matter of personal preference, though,” her only reaction is a blasé glance. The rest of her – tone, face, even shoulders – remains flat, “sir.”

“True,” his only option, in return, is to consider that for a second – turn back to the footage, rewind it to the beginning and start watching the glory again. A safe place, a _wonderfully_ safe place if ever he’s found one “…True. And soon Superwoman shall be destroyed, and _my_ personal preference shall be gone for good.”

“Very good, sir.”

He chooses to ignore the look that briefly flickers across Mercy’s face, wallows thoroughly in his brief sense of triumph instead. It’s best for all involved, really.

 

\--

 

“You’re happy tonight,” Clara remarks later, when he’s walking her home. They’ve been for a stroll in the park, a quiet amble down quiet paths and through peaceful woodland. Just the two of them – unharried, undisturbed, even unwatched if Mercy followed his instructions right down to the letter.

_Bliss_.

“Shouldn’t I be?” He asks with a calm smile, swinging their joined hands playfully – he’s never felt so young in all his life, so light and joyous and _giddy_. It hasn’t stopped being intoxicating yet, in that dangerous way that he still can’t quite put a finger on, “I’m with you, after all. Alone, with you…”

“How sweet,” she rolls her eyes at him. He loves the way he rolls her eyes, if he wasn’t already aware that he had it bad he’d realize it quite firmly at that, “but you were happy even before- even _when_ we met up, I should say. Despite coming straight from work, despite the fact that you’re still wearing your suit.”

“The very thought of you is enough to send me into raptures, my dear,” he offers mildly, with a perfectly straight face.

“… _Lex_.”

“Alright, _alright_ ,” he relents fondly, at her stern glare – holds up his free hand in one of the few kinds of surrender that he doesn’t flinch at giving, “I’ve been facing a problem at work lately. A very irritating problem that has proved remarkably persistent despite all of my attempts to… Work around it, let’s say. Today, with any luck, I finally found something that should make that problem disappear.”

“Sounds nice,” Clara allows eventually, and can’t help a smile from twitching at the corners of her mouth – she’s pleased for him, and can’t quite hide it. He doesn’t think that he’s had anybody be actually pleased for him in _years_ , “have you told me about this problem before?”

“I thought we agreed,” he laughs again at the look on her face, squeezes her hand in apology – the lure of her reaction was just too much to resist, and he may be a god but he’s never quite managed sainthood, “secrets of the trade, darling. I don’t pry into your business, and in return-“

“I don’t pry into yours,” she sighs, shakes her head – glances up at him with resigned amusement playing ever so prettily across her face, “that’s a terrible thing to do to any reporter, Lex.”

“But a fair thing,” he counters, with a thoughtful arch of his eyebrow.

“Perhaps,” she gives, and sighs, and smiles up at him again – tightens her grip on his hand until he finds himself hot, oddly flushed in that way that only Clara seems able to bring out in him, “so, tell me - am I more likely to see ‘happy Lex Luthor’ from this point on, then?”

“Again, hopefully,” he nods, barely represses a gulp under the ever so pure blue of her eyes – bluer than the sky, bluer than Superwoman’s ridiculous suit soaring through the air, “pleased about that?”

“Oh, more thrilled than a farmer on harvest day,” she laughs a little, allows her Kansas twang out for a moment as if she enjoys the mist that comes over his eyes at the very thought of it, “I do hope you’ll allow your old self out of his new seclusion _occasionally_ , though.”

“Really?” He blurts, still caught in her eyes and accent – blinks at her laughter, finds himself hot again in a way that he can’t quite help nor understand, “I mean… Even though I, he, confuses you?”

“You always confuse me, Lex. Be you happy, sad or somehow transformed into a Columbus Monkey,” but, then, nor can he understand the sudden stop of her laughter – the sudden distance in her eyes, the way that she bites her lip like she’s not quite sure of anything, “that doesn’t mean I don’t like you, I think. It just means that-“

He wants to make her certain. For her sake, if nothing else.

He tugs her gently forwards, and leans down to still her mouth before she can finish. She tastes of sunshine and warmth, of summers long ago that he can barely remember. Her skin is soft again his hand, soft and yielding and so very smooth that he half fears that he’ll open his eyes to find her slipped away. When she sighs, it echoes like the sweetest gunshot between them – a declaration of the most perfect kind of war.

“-You confuse me,” she still continues when he draws back, but with a small smile on her lips, “that’s all.”

 

\--

 

Superwoman’s glare, formidable and fixed right upon his face, reminds him of somebody.

He’s not sure who, he’s not sure if _anybody_ has ever glared at him like she has, but it unsettles him anyway. Makes him shaky, wary even at the moment of his triumph. He hides it well, of course he does, but it’s still _there_ \- annoying him even as he ambles towards her like the god he is, “I have a deal for you.”

Her jaw sets, her eyes flash – and both of those remind him of somebody too. He’s distracted, still annoyed even as she grits out a: “I’m listening.”

This is _not_ how he imagined this going.

“As long as I have the rock, you can’t stop me,” he continues anyway, shoving the distraction and the irritation and the _confusion_ right down to the point where it barely bothers him anymore, “but it is bothersome to have you always trying. So, the deal is this: you leave me and my operations alone, and I and my little green rock will leave _you_ alone.”

…It’s not working.

It’s not _working_ , the familiar clench of her jaw and the _known_ flash of her eyes are all that he can possibly see, “I don’t make deals with criminals.”

“I control everything in this city, Superwoman,” Something, some _body_ , that he’s seen before… “Your cooperation is not really necessary. The offer was merely a courtesy.”

He’s not sure, he doesn’t _know_. Everything is confusion, everything is molten rage. Superwoman confuses him as much as he confused Clara, and that… _Sickens_ him. As she steps up to his face, and as she glares right into his eyes, and as she _growls_ , “you will never control me, Luthor, never!”

…And as she flies away, without a backwards glance.

He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut for a confused moment. Sighs, and murmurs an angry, “I guess I’ll have to kill you, then,” as he gets back to work.

 

\--

 

Clara doesn’t call – or, indeed, communicate with him at _all_ \- for several weeks after their kiss; and, although he’s never been all that prone to paranoia in personal matters, he starts to wonder if he’s done something wrong.

Was it something he said? A casual comment that she interpreted wrongly? Or an inadvertent hint that she figured out far too rightly? Clara is as sharp as a pin, with a tongue to match Lois’ when she gets down to it. She seems simple, just a Kansas farm girl awed in the face of the big city, but it doesn’t take an idiot to tell that still waters run deep – she could’ve decided against him at a whisper, and he would never know which one.

Was it the kiss? The soft press of their lips together? Or his obvious, barely hidden pleasure at it? Clara may have a tongue to rival Lois’, and the knowledge to use it, but she also has a stubborn streak that almost exceeds her. She looks like an innocent flower, shy behind her thick glasses and winding braids, but push just a little and the heart of a bull waits underneath – she could’ve taken against his presumption, withdrawn easily to a place that he could never convince her from no matter how hard he tried.

…Was it the confusion? Did he push her too far? Press her beyond the boundaries of comfort? Clara is more like him than she may want to admit, and can be just as dangerous when pushed out of her comfort zone. She acts like she’d be ready for anything sometimes, the city reporter determined to leave her roots behind, but it’s never easy to forget the past – she could’ve fled for safer ground without a word, and he couldn’t even blame her because he would’ve done exactly the same thing.

_Agh_.

How could he have been so foolish, as to let somebody get that close?

…How could he have been so foolish, as to let that somebody go?

“I’m an idiot, Mercy,” he sighs mournfully, staring out over _his_ city spread out at his feet with nary a care or flash of interest, “a hopeless, bumbling _idiot_ who shouldn’t be allowed out on his own.”

And it’s amazing, how she can make a passive, “no, sir,” sound exactly like a screaming yes.


	3. Chapter 3

“Clara!” He’s surprised, two days later, when Clara turns up at his apartment out of the blue – hair up in a messy ponytail, old jeans slung low on her hips, eyes rimmed with red as if she hasn’t been getting quite enough sleep “…How did you get my address?”

She only stares at him for a second silently, hiccups low in her throat.

And if he was surprised before, at her sudden appearance and the suddener leap of his heart at it, he’s even more surprised when the hiccup morphs into a low whimper. And then a dry sob. And then her head buried into his chest, her entire body suddenly in his arms in less than a blink of an eye like she simply couldn’t wait.

“Uh,” he toys, briefly, with the idea of just shutting down at the feeling of her head tucked under his chin, the smell of her hair in his nostrils. Dismisses it the moment he becomes aware of the wetness seeping through his shirt, and immediately raises his arms to wrap around her instead, “hey, hey it’s okay. It’s _Okay_. Just breathe…”

By the time that she raises her face again, still wet but a little more composed, he’s managed to shut the door behind her and manoeuvre them over to the sofa. Her cradled against him, his arms so firm around her that _nothing_ could possibly get through. He still doesn’t quite understand – why she was absent for so long, why she’s come back to him now, why she’s still sniffling like she’s facing the aftermath of something terrible – but it doesn’t quite matter. When it’s somebody you lo- care for, so very deeply, it’s hard to keep such brutally detached logic in mind.

“You know,” he starts carefully, when she finally looks at him again with eyes red and snot running from her nose and face _beautiful_ , “I think that we might be taking this ‘professional secrecy’ thing a bit _too_ far.”

She stares at him for a second, oddly dazed, and then bursts out laughing – a ringing sound, that somehow manages to erase every lingering bit of tension in his chest like it never even existed in the first place “…Sorry, it’s been a rough few weeks.”

“No need to apologize,” he offers truthfully, possibly the first time he’s been truthful over such a matter in all his life, and slowly lifts his hand – brushes her hair back from where it’s whisping over her cheeks, exposes her slightly flushed skin with an odd sense of awe, “just tell me if there’s anybody that I need to have killed.”

“… _Lex_.”

“Only joking,” he lies mildly, and smiles until she starts to smile back – a slightly disbelieving quirk of her lips like she’s wondering at her very sanity, “seriously, though, is there anything I can do? Anything I can help you with? Honestly, anything – all of my power is at your disposal. And I hate to boast…”

“That is a lie and you know it,” she sniffs at him, but continues to smile as she does so – faintly, with growing warmth as she takes his face in, “it’s… All over now, thankfully. I don’t think there’s anything more that _can_ be done, or changed. I just- needed to be somewhere where I felt vaguely safe, you know? With somebody that I felt- Somebody.”

She feels safe with him.

Even after all this time, she feels _safe_ with him.

He’s not insensitive enough to celebrate, not now at least with her still so oddly vulnerable in his arms, but he does allow himself a small smile and a gentle kiss against her forehead. She shudders at it, but… Not unpleasantly, leans up into it and has her eyes closed when he finally pulls back.

“…You’re not going to tell me exactly what happened, are you?” Is the only question he allows himself. Watching her steadily more peaceful face closely, with the kind of scrutiny that he can’t quite puzzle out.

“Not yet,” her lips curve softly, when her eyes open they’re determined but kind, “maybe somebody, _hopefully_ someday, but… Not quite yet, I’m afraid.”

“Hm,” he replies gently, acceptingly. And then: “I suppose you’re not adverse to the idea of pizza?”

She looks surprised that he hasn’t called her out on her apology, even more surprised at his words. She blinks a little, looks confused again – he makes the executive decision not to worry about it right at this very moment, “uh, I suppose. I actually quite like it, when it has pepperoni on top…”

“Doable,” such a girl scout, he hides the urge to chuckle behind one businesslike hand, “and your favourite film?”

“Um, I’m not sure what that has to do with anything…” She catches it anyway, stares at him with an odd mixture of growing confusion and growing fondness. It makes his heart pound oddly, he’ll have to discuss it with one of his doctors at some point, “but To Kill a Mockingbird. The Gregory Peck version. _Not_ that there’s any other, to my knowledge, but-“

“Also doable,” and he interrupts her flailing, and smiles, and catches her hand up to his mouth in an ever so soft kiss as he reaches for the phone, “Mercy? Hello. Could you please order two pizzas with extra pepperoni on top, and procure me a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Yes, the film with Gregory Peck in it…”

That night they eat slightly crappy pizza and cuddle in front of his very biggest television as it plays To Kill a Mockingbird. When Clara falls asleep at the end, with a soft smile lurking around her lips, he only chuckles to himself – brushes her hair softly back from her forehead and goes to find his best blanket as she softly mumbles in her sleep.

 

\--

 

The next day he’s on cloud nine, only a step away from hovering around his office like he’s some schoolboy again. Clara is alive, Clara isn’t _mad_ , Clara came to _him_ because she thought him _safe_.

He’s pretty sure that it’s impossible to be unhappy, after all of that.

“Is the Corben business progressing?” He asks Mercy absently, barely resisting the urge to whirl in his chair – like the feckless child he hasn’t been for years - until the world starts to spin around him, “is everything in place?”

She doesn’t look scornful, at least. She rarely looks much of anything, really, but he can cope with that, “yes, sir.”

He feels young again, “Doctor Vale has checked in…?”

_Young_ , like he hasn’t since he was a child himself, “yes, sir. Just before you arrived this morning.”

And he can’t help being _lost_ in it, lost in the thoughts of this morning – when Clara sleepily reached for him, and yawned, and smiled even with her ponytail fluffed out awkwardly across the side of her face.

 

\--

 

He takes her to his yacht, of course. It seems the least he can do to cheer her up, to show her that he’s there for her no matter what. He’s never put this much effort into anybody else before, but it’s another thing that he doesn’t really mind – Clara deserves the world, and the least he can do is gift it to her on a silver platter.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she protests gently, as they walk arm in arm through the docks – her hair is back in a slightly neater ponytail, she’s bowed to his expertise on the subject of the sea and is wearing a slightly tattered dress and oddly blue pair of leggings as opposed to her normal fare.

“I’m sorry,” he’s still oddly pleased at the fact of her approval, tries to hide the extent of it by looking elsewhere as opposed to perusing the ever so pretty contours of her face, “don’t you approve of boats?”

“It’s not _that_ ,” he’s not fooling her for one moment, of course, but he’s starting to grow resigned to that. The way she peers up at him, all tight lips and sparkling eyes behind her glasses, is enough to ease a great deal of privations, “it’s just… Well, I had one bad day. Or week, anyhow. You’ve already been lovely enough.”

“Nonsense,” he says, as politely as possible – adds the way her eyes narrow to the list of oddly easing things, “it was a bad few weeks, and _nothing_ is lovely enough for you.”

She snorts at that, still gives him a sideways glance – slowly, doubtfully, as if she’s _trying_ to be cynical but still can’t quite believe him enough to force the motions, “I- don’t think that anybody has ever been as nice to me as you are.”

“Then all of those nobodies were idiots,” he offers gently, and takes a great deal of pride in her barely muffled laugh – in the way her eyes still sparkle even as she tries her very hardest to look disapproving, “come on, we’re already here. Just let me pamper you for once, alright?”

And she smiles, even through her feigned disapproval. And nods. And follows him ever so closely, her hand still so warm in his in a way that _he_ can barely believe himself. She’s so wonderful, and dazzling, and brilliant, and _impossible_. He suspects that there must be a catch, somewhere and somehow, but he still can’t quite find it in himself to care. He looks at her, and all the horrors of the world fall away like so much waste between them.

…He’s not expecting her to laugh, when they reach the yacht. But with that thought in his mind, still so bright and unwieldy, he can’t quite find it in himself to care, “what?”

“Nothing,” she mutters, hiding a snort behind her hand.

He knows her too well, even with those ditzy dreaming thoughts to distract him, to let her get away with a deception as simple as that, “ _Clara_.”

“It’s just…” She smiles a little, at his knowing, lowers her hand and bites her lip. He watches, still probably with an undue amount of fascination – the water reflects off her glasses and makes her face shine in an oddly familiar way, “I _do_ hope you’re not overcompensating for anything, Lex.”

He stares at her, taken aback for so many reasons that it’s hard to name. Stares…

“It’s so big,” she snorts a little, flutters her eyelashes like some temptress and then giggles like a Kansas farmgirl who has heard so many mixed metaphors applying to cattle that she can drawl them without thinking, “Mr Luthor, _however_ does it fit?”

And stares…

And bursts out laughing, almost before he realizes it. Leaves all the tightness, the odd burst of realization trying to break through, behind and _laughs_ until his ribs ache and Clara is beaming up at him like he’s just declared her to be some queen, “you are _impossible_ , Miss Kent. If I hadn’t given the staff the day off…”

She only continues to smile, takes his hand again in an ever so warm grip. He’s breathless, and flushed, and oddly vulnerable in a way that he’s never been before – but this must be a day for surprises, because he simply doesn’t _care_. He only squeezes her hand in turn, and leads her proudly up onto the yacht – his Clara, with him, exactly where they both belong.

_Perfect_.

…Until Corben turns up out of the blue, of course.

 

\--

 

Superwoman arrives exactly on time, as expected by now, and simultaneously manages to both spoil and save the day. She almost causes the end of his life, but then saves it in such a fashion that he can _almost_ forgive her for it… If she hadn’t already meddled in his affairs in so many ways that he’d probably want to kill her even if she saved his life fifty times over and took him to get ice cream afterwards.

She sets him on the dock afterwards, gently as if she’s not actually _trying_ to ruin his life. He sways for a second, still slightly dazed after their flight, but catches himself quickly – glares at her only briefly before turning away. There’s no need for a conversation here, no need for any kind of communication. Things will be far better if she just lets him get back to his business, ruling the world in the most legitimate way possible, and he lets her get back to hers, taking all interest out of his existence in the most illegitimate way imaginable. It’ll be nice, fun, _great_ in its own special-

Superwoman clears her throat gently, remains hovering as he exasperatedly turns back. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face, surprisingly familiar in a way that he doesn’t feel like examining all that closely.

“What?” He only snaps, instead of thinking about it – spins around with his arms already crossed over his chest and his eyes already narrow, a figure that has reduced several experienced negotiators into uselessly weeping messes with but the blink of an eye.

…She only stares at him.

“Not this again,” he grits his teeth, reminds himself that he should’ve expected this because no negotiator – no matter how experienced – has ever managed to be quite as much a thorn in his side as Superwoman has, “look, it’s been a long day. I am _not_ in the mood for any of your pointless moral grandstanding.”

…She only keeps staring at him.

“ _Or_ your frankly teenage sulking. Honestly, you must be at least in your twenties – late twenties, at a guess. You should’ve passed this stage about a _decade_ ago,” a thorn in his side that he can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries. All he can do is grit his teeth, raise his chin, stick to his legitimate points like he’s still in charge here, “I’m _busy_. I have a company to run, employees to take care of and my own personal affairs to focus on. I don’t have _time_ for this. And neither do you, for that matter – need I remind you of our mutual stalker, who wishes to ruin both of our lives?”

…Keeps _staring_.

“Look,” he says, still through gritted teeth – he’ll need to see a dentist, after this. Will need to pay the poor man extra for how much stress he’s been putting his mouth through ever since he came face to face with his itch, his thorn, his nemesis, _Superwoman_ , “I’m also not in the mood for your feigned deafness. Which, quite frankly, is also beneath you. There was a woman on the boat. I got her off before he laid a hand on her, but-“

_But_ -

…But, before his rage can boil over into something ugly and completely justified, she moves. Drifts forward, presses a smooth hand to his cheek and looks deep into his eyes before he can do more than give a slightly startled blink. He absently notes that she smells like summer, like the past, like Clara but _more_ so-

“I still don’t understand you,” she interrupts his thoughts, before they can fall any further down the rabbit hole, with an odd wrinkle of her forehead – an odd curve of her lips, as if she can’t quite figure him out despite all her power, “I-“

And he stares at her.

…And she sighs, and shakes her head, and removes her hand and flies ever so swiftly away without even the briefest of backwards glances.

 

\--

 

“I told you, Lex, I’m _fine_.”

“Are you sure?” He asks later that night – phone to his ear, sinking deeper into the bath that he insisted on being drawn the very moment he got home, “it’s not every day that a homicidal robot interrupts a date and threatens to kill you.”

“You… Would probably be surprised,” Clara clears her throat at the other end of the line, carries brightly on before he can do more than blink at that unexpected piece of almost-information, “besides, wasn’t Corben more of an android?”

He blinks again, decides to move on with her. It really has been far too long a day, he can poke at out of place details when it no longer feels like an uncomfortable amount of his limbs are about to fall off, “there’s a difference?”

“An android is always in the form of a human,” she sounds relieved, he takes the executive decision not to poke too closely at that either, “a robot, generally, isn’t. Though I will admit that the lines can often become a bit blurred – especially in real life, where fictional robots referred to as androids have kind of ruined any sort of system.”

“Oh,” he says. And blinks a few more times, just for good measure “…How much Science-Fiction did you consume in your childhood, may I ask?”

“Look, Smallville was _hardly_ the most interesting place in Kansas and for lack of any more edifying pursuits…” Clara gives a little snort, a slightly louder laugh. He smiles again, glad to find that there’s nothing more to really blink at – tilts his head back and allows the soft sound of her pleasure to happily echo through, “I think I’m gonna try and get an early night, if that’s alright. Try to make up for all this _android_ business before I end up falling asleep at my desk tomorrow.”

“No, that’s not allowed at all,” his smile turns into a smirk, he squashes the slight disappointment that worms in his gut – he’ll see her soon, the period of their separation is long gone, “you’re _sure_ that you’re alright?”

“Jerk,” he _trusts_ her – and that terrifies and pleases him in equal measure, even as she giggles gently down the phone in that way that always makes his heart pound just a little faster, “And I’m _fine_. I’ll see you as soon as possible, alright?”

“If you say so,” he waits until she makes an annoyed noise down the phone, can’t help himself from starting to smile again – he’s terrified, but for the first time in his life he doesn’t care. Standing on the edge, staring down into an abyss that he doesn’t quite understand – but all he wants to do is _leap_ , “then I’ll believe you. Sleep well, my dear.”

“You too! …Lex.”

Just his name, but it sounds like a caress. He’s an idiot – but, as he hangs up the phone, it’s yet another thing that he can’t quite find it within himself to mind.


	4. Chapter 4

The next time that he meets Superwoman he finds that he’s still, strangely enough, confused.

He’s being grilled about his little alien project, a small sideline that’ll hopefully reap profitable benefits, and all he can focus on is _her_. Standing across the room, black hair free around her shoulders, eyes boring holes into him like he’s the most interesting thing in the universe.

Who _is_ she?

This Superwoman. She must be something other than Superwoman, mustn’t she? Nobody could stand to wear that ridiculous get up 24-7, they’d go absolutely insane. She _must_ have a secret identity. One of his limited business rivals, perhaps. Or a government official, tired of waiting in the shadows and wanting to grab some power for her own. Or, on the outside, a _cop_ who couldn’t stand to let the perceived injustices of the world go on for a single moment longer.

Why is she so _interested_ in him?

This Superwoman. There must be a reason why she’s trying to stare straight into his soul, mustn’t there? And not just the fact that she obviously believes him to be some sort of devil wearing human shape, he’s been a _good_ boy for the past few weeks. Maybe she still suspects him, despite his Boy Scout behaviour. Or maybe he has something in his teeth from his late lunch, even though all the other officious fools in the room seem not to notice a thing. Or maybe she’s _actually_ confused by him, just as confused as he is by her untimely entrance into his life just as things were starting to look up.

Why does she _care_ so much?

…And, for that matter, why does he care so much? When she’s nothing more than a thorn in his side, a petty distraction who always does her best to ruin his every single plan?

One of the government officials, puffed-up with an obnoxious sense of righteousness and a false feeling of purpose, has asked a sneering question. He summons a smile at it, turns away from the thoughts that he doesn’t quite want to face and raises his chin like the god he is, “there’s also a thing known as _Free Enterprise_ -“

He keeps watching her, though. Remains confused.

\--

 

He’s surprised, that night, when Clara turns up at his door again. Hair messily up in a low ponytail, eyes tired as she leans against his doorframe.

“You know,” he says mildly, unable to do anything other than step back, “you really _will_ have to tell me how you found my address one of these days.”

“I thought we agreed on professional secrecy,” she reminds him, but the curve of her lips is amused as she walks in – wheels on her heels at the last moment to press an ever so soft kiss to his cheek, “unless you want to inform me why a homicidal android was out for your flesh?”

“Touche,” he chuckles, and catches her up into a proper kiss before she can pull away – mouth on mouth, arms around her back, so deep that he’s breathless when he finally comes up for air “…Mm, you look tired.”

“It’s not _my_ fault that you’re that bad at kissing,” she sniffs at him, and then giggles when he puts on a mock-offended expression – shakes her head fondly, her eyes flashing even behind her glasses, “it’s been a bit of a long day.”

“Indeed?” he waits, only carries on when that fails to get more than another amused curve of her lips, “you seem to be having a lot of long days lately.”

“Peril of the job, I knew what I was getting into when I chose it,” the curve of her lips widens at that, at least – and she even steps closer, mischievously tilting her head and placing her hands on his chest like she can reach right through him and pluck ever so delicately at the strings of his heart, “but do you really want to talk about my past bad decisions _now_?”

“I could discuss them all night,” he offers solemnly, trying not to get too distracted by the touch of her hand, and _delights_ in the snort that results, “but if there are other options…”

“I can think of one or two,” and Clara downright _purrs_ , and leans up to kiss him so firmly that he forgets that anything else exists.

They end up on the sofa, coiled so close together that he can hardly tell where he ends and she begins. Her hair remains in its ponytail, but barely. Her breath is warm against his lips, so warm that a volcano is brought to mind. Her eyes, whenever he remembers to break their kiss to peer into them, are so soft that his heart swells at the very sight of them.

Perfect. _Perfect_.

She still tastes of summer, he notes absently as their lips move together. He never thought that anybody could taste of summer before her, but there’s no other way to describe it. Clara tastes of summer, and hope, and long ago things that he thought lost in the mists of memory. She tastes of the childhood he never had, the present that he never really thought of, the future that he never once expected. He looks at her, and he can still barely believe that she’s _real_.

Real, _here_.

He sighs at that, at the thousand other pleasant thoughts that he never thought to have, and can’t even complain when she takes advantage of the pause. Slips her tongue into his mouth, ever so quickly, and presses him back until she’s in control of the kiss. A queen, in exactly her rightful place.

Here, with _him_.

He’s never met anybody quite like Clara. Like Superwoman, she’s an entirely singular entity who burst into his life without a moment of warning… Though, granted, in a way that he minds _far_ less. She’s a shock, a marvel, a wonder. She wriggles under his skin, even deeper than Lois ever did, and makes him not mind a single bit. She’s an enigma, a mystery even when she’s being completely honest. And that… Somehow, only draws him in all the closer.

Towards her, _his_.

He draws back to nip at her lower lip, a playful gesture that he can’t quite resist. She only smiles at him, laughs at him, presses against him until he can’t help but fall back onto his elbows and let her slide over him. On top she almost looks imposing. She grins at him and he laughs in delight, she leans in again and it splutters off into a barely contained moan.

_Hers_ , them together.

He’s never _felt_ this way before, and he thinks that that’s the most terrifying thing about this entire business. He’s never let anybody in before, and yet she slips past his defences like they weren’t even there in the first place. He’s never much cared for mysteries, and yet she captivates him with every outstanding secret. He’s never had a woman on top before, and yet there she _is_ \- on top, in control, with him loving it in a way that he can’t quite understand.

No matter, no _matter_.

He reaches up, daringly, and grabs her ass through her jeans. Firm, almost _peachy_ if he was regularly in the habit of using such a word. Her only response is a low rumble, a growing moan that he feels more than hears. She tilts her hips down, grinds into him when he’s still trying to catch his breath. He _groans_ , she only smiles ever so lightly into his mouth in reply.

Softer, closer.

He’s afraid, he supposes. Not in a bad way, he doesn’t even remember what it’s like to be afraid in a bad way, but… In an entirely new way, yet again. He’s let her too close, he already knows. He’s let her _so_ close that he’d be a fool to let her go, a fool to do anything to drive her away. If there’s anything that their brief estrangement, a few weeks ago now, taught him it’s that he’s weak to her. She’s under his skin, in his veins, moving smoothly through his very mind. She’s the Kryptonite to his Superwoman, and-

Well, he’d be a fool if he wasn’t at least a little bit afraid of that. A fool if he wasn’t at least a little _thrilled_ by that, like a small bird standing at the edge of a very large cliff.

Clara yawns on top of him.

A big drop below, if he falls, but blue skies ahead if he _soars_. The ultimate bargain, and he’s never been one to shy from that sort of promise.

…Clara _yawns_ on top of him.

“You’re tired,” he observes gently, breaking their kiss and tilting his head back to fondly observe her face – her tired eyes behind her skewed glasses, the dark whisp of her hair still miraculously held in its ponytail, “come on, let’s get to bed before you pin me here all night.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Clara protests stubbornly – but is thwarted by a yawn, a trembling thing that shoots up her throat and bursts out through her mouth before even she can think to catch it “…And will I really get any rest in _your_ bed?”

“I am a _gentleman_ , Miss Kent,” he grins at her, sits up when she rolls her eyes and lets him – cradled to his chest, she looks up at him with a mixture of amused exasperation and open fondness that leaves him slightly breathless no matter how hard he tries to fight it, “at least for tonight. I make no promises to the events of… _Later_.”

“Good to know,” she purrs, and smirks. Leans up to press a final teasing kiss to his lips before she pulls away, raises on shaky feet and plants her hands on her hips in a pose so familiar that he barely bites back a snort, “lead the way, then. For now.”

“My pleasure, my dear Clara,” he is a _businessman_ , he has been biting back all manner of things for _years_. He rises to his own feet, slightly flushed, and puts his best foot forward – observes her amusedly trailing him with a certain sense of fondness that he can’t quite deny, “my _pleasure_.”

 

\--

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night to find Clara sitting bolt upright in the bed besides him. Limbs stiff, sleep-braid trailing down her back, eyes dazed as she pants harshly out into the dark of the night.

“Clara?” Half-asleep, and confused with it, he finds that he has to check that it’s still _her_ there – sitting in his bed, curled into one of his shirts that he absent-mindedly lent her when she teased him about her lack of pyjamas, For a second - just a second, just a _moment_ \- he thought that he saw… “Clara, are you-?”

It doesn’t matter.

“Fine,” Clara, his Clara, answers sharply – and then forces a tight little smile, lowers herself back down into his arms and seems to expect him to just ignore all the tension still thrumming so clearly through her limbs, “I’m absolutely fine, Lex. Don’t worry about me.”

It doesn’t _really_ matter.

“…Are you quite-?”

The vision of Superwoman, sitting bolt upright and shaking, in his bed was just a relic of sleep-deprivation – nothing more, nothing less.

“ _Yes_ ,” Clara snaps again, and then forcibly makes all her limbs loosen, rolls away from him like she doesn’t quite want him to see whatever is on her face, “don’t worry about it, Lex. I just… Need to think, that’s all.”

He doesn’t get much more sleep that night, anyway.

 

\--

 

He’s already grumpy the next day, even before Superwoman lands on his roof. He’s a man of luxury, used to well-earned rewards and perks. To go without sleep, robbed from him by his own worry and Clara’s thoughtful expression, is… _irritating_ to the extreme.

“Go away,” he says sharply, the moment he sees her hovering like an overly fussy mother hen (the type that even _chicks_ balk at), “I’m not in the mood for you today.”

“Busy again?” She asks sharply. And then remembers just who he is – just who _she_ is, with her absurd moral code – and deliberately pulls herself back, takes an ever so polite breath that sends his hackles swiftly rising, “we need to talk.”

He scowls a little, refuses the urge to cross his arms and stamp his feet. He doesn’t really remember being a toddler, now is _not_ the time for fond recollections, “I don’t think we do.”

“Luthor-“ even if her face is the kind of face that provokes such things – so smug, so morally superior, so _close_ like he can’t move with her disapproval being so thoroughly earned, “it’s about Braniac.”

“Smashing,” he’s never liked the feeling of being judged – not when he was a tiny child, not when he was a relative innocent to the world of business, and _certainly_ not now with the world at his feet and Godhood just a stretch away, “I’m not interested in a moral lecture.”

And _certainly_ not from this false goddess – with her drifting hair, and pinched expression, and oddly familiar eyes staring their way into his soul, “I’m not interested in giving one.”

“Of course,” he snaps stiffly, and steps into his elevator without a backwards glance – still resisting the urge to stamp his feet, to bite his lip, to slam his fist into the wall so hard that his knuckles would scar from it, “because you’re capable of doing anything else. _Goodbye_ , miss-“

“Luthor!” He’s startled, when her hand forces between the closing doors, but not enough to show it. By the time that she’s stepped in he’s schooled his expression again, is able to face her with a calmly raised eyebrow and the very slightest of frowns, “I… think he might be dangerous. To all of us, especially you.”

He stares for a second, dispassionately. Notes the quiet worry in her familiar eyes, the vibrating readiness in her stance, the slight redness of her lower lip as if she’s been chewing at it…

“ _Please_.”

And, well. How on _earth_ is he supposed to resist something as interesting as that?

 

\--

 

The ride down is awkward, quiet. Superwoman updates him on her findings quickly enough, professionally enough, but her eyes are vague and remain fixed upon him even afterwards. Following him, watching him, _examining_ him like he’s some bug under a microscope – fit for imprisonment in a museum and very little else.

It annoys him. Deep down, barely rationally – like an itch that he can’t quite scratch, “do you see something that you like?”

“I-“ she pauses, in her perusal, flushes in an oddly familiar way. It’s distracting, but he manages to ignore it, and the odd flash of almost-guilt in her eyes, easily enough – he’s come too far to be so easily rattled now, “uh, I mean. I don’t-“

“Of course not,” he offers, witheringly, and turns from her – fixes his eyes upon the metal doors instead, focuses on the cool steel as opposed to the irritating heat of her body besides him, “but perhaps you do know that I have a _girlfriend_.”

“I do,” she offers awkwardly, shiftingly, and then shakes her head – out of the corner of his eye he can see her still flushing, still awkwardly thoughtful in a way that really shouldn’t catch his eye as much as it does, “I mean… Uh, that’s not entirely _relevant_ to our current business, Le- Luthor.”

“Hm,” he offers, pleasantly, notes the slip up on his name – the unearned familiarity – with a mixture of annoyance and confusion, “she wouldn’t appreciate you staring, you know.”

“I…” but, then, that’s his entire range of emotion when it comes to Superwoman – that annoying thorn in his side, that unknown rose that just keeps _growing_ , “I wasn’t staring.”

“Of course.”

“I _wasn’t_.”

“Of _course_.”

Her lips thin, in his peripheral vision, she glances front herself. A long minute of silence goes by. And then, just as the elevator doors are starting to open into his inner sanctum- “sometimes I don’t know how she puts up with you in the first place.”

“You’re such a lovely mutant being from outer space,” he offers, sourly. Steps out of the elevator with his fisted hands shoved quite firmly in his pocket, “shall we return to Braniac before I find a way to get you back there?”

He’s honestly, _honestly_ , not sure how this day could get any worse. He’s pretty sure that he’s sealed his own fate with just that thought.

 

\--

 

He’s pretty sure that he did, indeed, seal his own fate with that very thought.

Braniac is hacking into his computers, and everything is going wrong at once. He doesn’t have control of _anything_ \- not of his computers, not of Braniac, not of the world slowly falling out from under his feet – and it _rankles_ , chafes him in a way that only Superwoman has managed before now. He’s adrift, lost in a sea of confused anger and bruising hate, and God help him but he’s _never_ been fond of that.

“Mercy,” he says sourly, folding his fingers under his chin and watching the world crumble on his helpfully flashing screens, “if we all die, please tell me that you’ll resurrect yourself and gain revenge upon this creature.”

“Of course, sir,” she nods practically, gives him only the briefest glance out of the corner of her eye – calm, like only she can manage in such a situation as this, “do you want me to inform Miss Kent of our imminent doom? See if there’s anything we can do?”

“…No,” he thinks for a long second, clenches his fingers hard beneath his chin and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s too late for worries and suspicions and creeping dread, it’s too late for _anything_ what with that fatal final sleep creeping up upon them with an inevitability that he’s trying not to feel too guilty about, “no, let her spend her last few hours alive in peace. She deserves that much, at least.”

“Very good, sir.”

Too late for anything, but the dread of losing. He ignores Mercy’s oddly thoughtful expression, sighs, and firmly closes his eyes again.

 

\--

 

That night there’s a knock on his door, at about the time he expected. He’s so thrilled at the wonder of _not dying_ that he barely takes a moment to think before answering, spares only the very briefest glance to the bug that he _knows_ Mercy planted there before throwing open the door.

And there his Clara stands – hair back in a messy braid, eyes lidded behind her thick glasses, smile fond as she takes in his face.

_His_.

“Another long day?” He asks, in a tone so breathless that he’s sure the entire city just rolled their eyes in time.

“You have _no_ idea,” but Clara, at least, refrains and so that’s alright with him for now. She giggles, steps into his apartment, grabs his hands the moment she gets close enough – tight, firm, solid in a way that he’s been needing for _hours_ now, “what about you? You look… Tired.”

“You’ve obviously been listening to all my lectures on flattery,” he purrs – and watches the pretty flush rise on her cheeks, listens to the laugh splutter up in her chest with a pleasure that makes him giddy inside. Carefree, despite all the privations of this terrible day, “I’m fine, now. It’s been a… Difficult day otherwise.”

“Oh?” 

“ _Professional secrecy_ , my dear.”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” she smirks up at him, and he can’t even find it within himself to mind. Can only tighten his fingers around hers, watch the continuing curve of her mouth with an almost creepy level of fascination and reflect fondly on the warmth rising unbidden in his chest, “is there anything I can do?”

He would’ve been worried, before, scrambling to take out his rage on numerous doctors. Now he can only laugh, shake his head ever so fondly, “to get information out of me?”

“No,” and she only chuckles in return – smirks again, steps so far into his space that their noses are blushing and he can count the scattered freckles on her nose, “to _help_ , Lex.”

“Well,” the laugh catches in his throat, the breathless feeling returns. He heeds neither of them – as he smirks in return, and purrs in return, and leans so slowly in that he can feel the thud of their twin heartbeats echoing in his ears like the sweetest of music, “I can think of a _few_ things…”

They end up in his bedroom in a frankly miraculous amount of time, after a slightly embarrassing amount of stumbling and mumbled negotiation. He slips his hands neatly up under her shirt, and she nips his lips in reply. He rumbles softly, she answers with a cut off groan of her own. They sway together – ever so close, ever so close, ever so _hard_. She clutches at him, far harder than she ever has before, and he can only manage a gasp in reply.

“How far do you want to go?” He asks – between desperately melting kisses, gentle gropes that send a thrill right down his spine, “I don’t-“

“You don’t want to?” She asks, a touch concerned – continues dragging him absently towards the bed, like she can’t _wait_.

“I don’t-“ he sucks in a sharp breath, at both that and the twist of her tongue. Finds his eyes slamming shut for a moment longer than he cares for, makes up for it by sliding his tongue into her mouth again and _again_ “…Want to _push_ you.”

“Oh,” she only moans, again. Smiles at him. Drags him towards her so quickly that a tiny, irrelevant part of his mind wonders at her strength, “don’t worry about _that_.”

She pulls him backwards onto the bed, and he goes willingly – only grasping at her hips to steady himself as they fall against the sheets. She laughs, shuddering and bright underneath him, and all he can do is grin in reply.

She still tastes like sunshine.

Like sunshine, and summer, and hope, and all the ridiculous things that he thought he’d left behind long ago. He twines his fingers in her braid absently, and she presses another nip against his lip in response. Their kiss goes deep, filthy. He finds himself arching up with a groan that he can’t quite help.

He’s never thought of himself as a powerless man.

Not for years, not for decades, not since _childhood_ where he was naturally looking up at the world from a position below. She rests her warm hands against the side of his face, and he happily allows her to manoeuvre him. Their kiss keeps going, so firm that he can feel himself go hard at the very brush of it. He finds himself shaking on top of her, open to her in a way that he’s never been before.

Until now. With her underneath him, her tongue sliding against his, her laughter filling the air…

He doesn’t know what to do about it, her. It’s too much, _she’s_ too close. He lets go of her braid to twine their fingers together, she squeezes back and continues her insistent kiss. Their limbs tangle together, so close that it’s like they’ve never been apart. He knows, yet again, that he _should_ be terrified-

But he isn’t. And, somehow, that’s even more terrifying than all the past and the powerlessness put together.

…He can still turn this to his advantage.

He takes control of the kiss, sliding his tongue firmly into her mouth and kissing her breathless before she can do more than giggle at him. He kisses, and kisses, and kisses – and only draws back when she’s gasping against his lips, little breathless puffs of pleasure. When he draws back she peers up at him prettily, a laugh starting to rumble up her throat as he grins at her… And sets to work on the front of her shirt.

It’s easy enough to unbutton, to draw down over her shoulders and elbows. She sits up as far as she’s able to help him, wriggles her shoulders and gives him a look from under her eyelashes. He’s not quite sure where her glasses have disappeared to, he’s _sure_ that he didn’t take them off, but this is hardly the time to care about something as inconsequential as that. Her bra is lacy, obviously as fancy as money allows. He runs a slow fingernail over the obvious nub of her nipple underneath it, _grins_ as she jerks her hips and lets out a low whimper in response.

“ _Interesting_.”

Her fringe is in her eyes, hiding them in an oddly familiar way. Her chest is heaving and flushed, and her mouth is open. She looks up at him like she still can’t quite believe him, like he’s something entirely beyond her grasp.

He continues to grin. Tugs the cups of her bra down until the curves of her breasts are fully exposed, bends his head and gets quickly down to work.

Clara’s been quiet up until now, almost _demure_ , but that quickly changes at the first touch of his tongue to her nipple. She stiffens, makes a slightly broken sound and bucks her hips up against him. He _twirls_ his tongue, and a whimper forces its way up into the air like the sweetest sound in the world – like an acknowledgement of his godhood, mixed in with an offer to be his forever.

He laps at her once, twice. Feels her start at the touch of his tongue, straining against the straps of her bra around her elbows.

She moans softly, a delicious sound that travels straight down to his groin. Pushes up against him, throws her head back against the pillow. She’s shameless like this, completely open – he wonders, as deeply and thoughtfully AS he can given their position, why he didn’t make her so before now.

He changes his tactic, at the look on her face. Circles his tongue instead, a slow and careful drag that has been known to drive past partners insane.

And she doesn’t disappoint. Her moans ripple into groans, loud and echoing in the temple of his room. Her heels dig into the sheets, almost ripping them with the force of impact. Her eyes squeeze shut, her chest heaves and she trembles as if she’s trying so desperately to hold herself back from something beautiful and unknown.

He can’t have _that_ , no matter how fond he is. He switches, playfully, to her other nipple before she can even catch her breath – goes back to lapping, teasing like the mastermind he is.

And he’s rewarded, yet again. The groans increase in volume, turn into stuttered _whines_ that set a fire burning in his gut. Her perfect teeth sink into her ever so full red lips, almost hard enough to draw _blood_. Her hips lift again, right off the bed, and grind and grind and _grind_ -

Pleased, _intoxicated_ , he changes again. Goes back to circling, teasing her ever so sweetly beneath him. His goddess, his other half, _his_.

And her whines turn into soft, breathless gasps. Both her fingers and toes curl, hands bunching into oddly familiar fists. Her limbs start to shake ever so sweetly, as if she’s teetering right on the edge of the most heavenly sensation that humanity – with all their unfortunately limited capabilities – can reach…

He shouldn’t have let his guard down, really.

Before he knows it, in the space of less than a blink, she’s shucked herself free from the confines of her bra and flipped them. She hovers over him triumphantly, hair trying to scramble free from its braid and eyes _blazing_ with a light that makes him feel hot and cold all at once. She almost reminds him of somebody like this, somebody distant and untouchable, somebody _familiar_ …

“Stop thinking.”

It doesn’t matter.

“Stop _thinking_ , Lex.”

It doesn’t _matter_. Not as she flashes a perfect little smirk, lowers her perfect head and fixes her perfect mouth firmly upon him. Pleasure kicks in his gut, all of his limbs loosen at once and a happy hum starts up through his veins. There’s no _need_ for thinking here, not with her dark head brushing right up against his neck.

She only kisses at first, a gentle press of her lips that sends his heart pounding. The caress of her mouth is maddening, almost too much to bear. He still finds himself submitting to it without thinking, tilting his head all the way back so she has full access to his jugular.

Submitting.

Given this access, Clara only grows bolder. Her tongue slips out, ever so neatly, and teasingly traces the path her lips took. He already feels, to his slight shame, like he’s going insane – like she’s stealing his brain out through his neck by the very press of her tongue. He continues submitting without caring, only grasping her hips to drag her _closer_.

_Submitting_.

Urged on in such a manner, and he _refuses_ to hide exactly how eager he is, her boldness only increases. He stills at the first graze of her teeth, but the sudden dig of them is so _pleasurable_ that the shock of the moment soon passes. Fuck his sanity, it was never of that much use anyway. He submits like he was always going to, groans underneath her and thrusts wildly into the space between her legs.

…And he doesn’t even care, that’s the most terrifying thing of all.

The thought is, though, enough to get him moving again. Even if reluctantly. He gently tugs on the end of her ragged braid until she pulls back with a confused huff. Quickly capitalizes on his advantage, and rolls them until he’s lying between her thighs with her peering down at him, face curious and flushed and _ever_ so pretty, “Lex…?”

And he _hates_ to keep a lady waiting.

She gasps when his fingers go to the button of her jeans, but moves quickly enough to help him once he actually pops it. They wriggle them down over her thighs with the minimum of effort, send her underwear following soon after. And then… She’s _naked_ before him, naked and _glorious_ in a way that somehow manages to surpass every single bit pf his dreaming.

He stares appreciatively for one moment, two. But any more than that would leave no time to sample and, well…

The taste of her on his tongue is almost enough to send him screaming back to safe insanity. It’s something… Different, from every other woman that he’s been with (not that he’s ever done this for many of _those_ ). It’s something sweet and heavy, seductive and full, _astonishing_. He finds himself lapping inelegantly at her for a few moments, burying his tongue deeper, trying to find the source of that taste in a way that _must_ be some kind of madness yet again.

“Lex...”

But he’s a gentleman, and never let either of them forget that for a _moment_.He draws back, at her shakily overwhelmed gasp, and starts to taste again instead. A gentle brush over her, using more lips and breath than anything so common as a tongue.

“Lex-“

He only moves on when she starts actually tugging at his shoulders, making choked-off noises as sweet as a choir of angels. He doesn’t touch her clit, not _just_ yet, but pays special attention to the area around it. Alternating long licks with short laps, turning his head and clenching his hands upon her thighs to try and keep some semblance of control.

“ _Lex_ -“

It doesn’t work, he’s pretty sure that he’s just as lost as she is in his own way, but that’s hardly the type of thing to get picky over now. He presses his tongue to her until she’s trembling again, making helplessly pleased noises beneath him. His fingers tighten, his pace grows faster and faster and all he can see is _her_ \- his goddess, lying above him with hair so dark against her flushed skin and eyes so very bright.

“ _Lex_ -!”

And he’s never been cruel, _not_ in matters of the heart. He steadies himself on her thighs, brushes first his tongue and then his lips over her clit. And, to his delighted pride, the response is _electric_. She _screams_ underneath him, bucks so hard that he’s almost thrown off the bed (and only holds on due to extensive training from Superwoman). He does it again, _again_ \- holds on and licks her until she’s writhing, sobbing, screeching his name and coming apart completely at just the touch of his mouth.

“ _Lex_!”

In the aftermath she pants breathlessly, chuckles softly, drags him up for a kiss with her eyes lidded and her limbs soft. She doesn’t seem to notice the taste of herself on him, or simply doesn’t care. She just kisses him thoroughly, a press of tongue and teeth that leaves him even more achingly breathless than he was before it begun.

“Mm,” she sighs happily, when they eventually separate – smirks at him teasingly with her dark hair falling over her face and her pretty eyes blazing through the covering, “ _Mm_. You are most talented at that, Mr Luthor.”

“Thank you,” is the only thing he can think of to say in response, half dumb and half distracted. There’s something- Oh, now is nowhere _near_ the time for something as petty and irritating as that, “it helps when I have such an _inspiring_ partner.”

“Oh, _you_ ,” she only giggles in response – and allows her smile to turn wicked, her eyes to shade even more towards the molten. Her hand drops from where it was clenched against his shoulder, tight enough to leave bruises he notes absently, and trails down his sweaty chest – only comes to a stop when it reaches his trousers, is toying with the button so playfully that his heart swells several times at the very feel of it, “want to find out just how inspiring I can be?”

And he’d have to be a _fool_ to resist that suggestion, no matter whatever state he – or they – were in, “ _Yes_.”

 

\--

 

Afterwards they lie coiled up in bed together. Her head resting on his chest, his fingers still playing absently with her barely intact braid. He feels… Calm, restful, happy in a way that he hasn’t been for years. He feels _complete_ \- and he never thought that he’d feel that with another person, but life just keeps on throwing up surprises.

“I-“

Dangerous ones.

“You-“

_Extremely_ dangerous ones.

“We-“

_Insanely_ -

But, somehow, he finds that he can’t quite mind. As Clara sighs, and huffs, and turns her head up to him with an ever so bright smile lingering around her lips, “so, I guess this means that we’re serious?”

Dangerous. But, as he softly laughs, a danger that he might just be able to get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> As you may have noticed, this is the last chapter of this particular story. But have no fear! I have notes for a sequel, so hopefully that will be coming soon! 
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments. It honestly surprises me that anybody has been reading this, I mainly started writing it for myself, and I'm so glad that so many people seem to have liked it. So thank you again! And see you soon! :D


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